


Music on the Wind

by adventureofthedancinggirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Elemental Magic, M/M, Magical Realism, Music, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 04:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11267694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventureofthedancinggirl/pseuds/adventureofthedancinggirl
Summary: Where Sherlock comes from everyone makes music that controls the elements. But instead of calming storms or powering machinery, the soft breeze that flows from his violin seems to disappear into thin air.Since he was a child John could hear things other people couldn't. His father never believed him but his mother told him that the music on the wind was the sound of his soulmate calling for him.Over the years Sherlock and John develop a connection that transcends space and time until one day their worlds come crashing together.





	Music on the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the [@hiatustory](https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/) June challenge on Tumblr.
> 
> The prompt of a magical realism/elemental AU resulted in a rather Murakami-esque tale of soulmates, music and parallel universes.
> 
> Warnings: brief mentions of childhood abuse, drugs, war and suicidal thoughts (It has a happy ending, I promise!)

Ever since John was a child he could hear things other people couldn’t - a whisper on the wind, a melody in the afternoon breeze, a quiet sonata drifting through the silent midnight hours.

When he was young the music came and went without warning - a few notes while he brushed his teeth before school, disjointed chords on the bus ride home, and sometimes a few minutes of frenzied screeching that made him fling his hands over his ears. But the music quickly improved, the squeaky chords becoming steadier as the weeks went by. It was almost always the violin, though for a few months the melodic strings were interspersed with bouts of rich but disjointed scales on a grand piano. While Harry ran about getting into mischief with the other neighbourhood children John could spend hours listening to the music on the wind.

His father never believed him and often voiced the opinion that his son was either going mad or simply pretending in order to get attention. One night during dinner the music began and 7-year old John sat there transfixed. The music was different that night - warm, inviting, so much more real than the family in front of him. The music was so loud that it blocked out the sound of his father yelling at him to “speak when you’re spoken to,” until he felt a large hand across the side of his head and the ringing in his ears drowned out the music.

Later that night as the faint strains of a slow lullaby drifted in through the window his mother pulled him close and told him not to worry. She told him that the music on the wind was the sound of his soulmate calling for him across space and time and that someday, when the universe was ready, the pull of the melody would bring them together.

\-----

Everyone in Sherlock’s village made magic with their music. Some of the most powerful musicians were known to slice through rough seas with a song, calm a tornado with the sound of a flute, or literally make the earth move, raising boulders with a drum beat.

At five years old Sherlock’s violin concertos were the most beautiful anyone had heard in living memory but he couldn’t light fires like his father did when his fingers flew across the strings of his guitar. Nor could he divert water with the lilt of his voice like his mother. Sherlock wanted more than the gentle breeze that flowed from his strings and disappeared quickly into thin air. Try as he might he couldn’t make the wind do his bidding.

The elders said his music could transcend space and time and that it would reach other worlds. But at the moment all Sherlock wanted was to be like everyone else, or at least to be able to use his music to whip the snow Mycroft created with his keyboard into snowballs to fling back at him.

When he told Mummy that he wanted to stop playing because he would never make anything happen she stroked his hair and told him that what he could do wasn’t nothing - the wind would grow with him and would carry his music to the person he was fated to be with, and one day, when that person needed it the most, it would save their life.

\-----

John stopped mentioning the music to his father, learned to tune it out in his presence, but when he found himself alone he let the sounds wash over him, taking comfort in the way the gentle breeze seemed to find and speak to him.

Sometimes it was a joyful jaunty tune that brought to mind adventure on the high seas, sometimes the music had a more studied pace, a sense of duty.

Then one summer day John felt the wind whip up around him, encircling him with an overwhelming sense of loss unrelated to the relief he’d been feeling about the end of the school term. The music swelled as it spoke of heartbreak and memories and John felt tears that were not his own slide down his face. Without thinking he reached his hands into the gale.

 _It’s alright_ , he whispered threading his fingers through the tendrils of sound, _It’ll be okay_.

The music settled into a slow melody of wavering tears and John remained there until the wind quieted itself to a gentle breeze that stayed with him as he walked home.

\-----

“Darling, he’s at peace now,” Mummy whispered, “I’m so sorry, but we need to let him go.”

Sherlock stayed where he was, fingers tangled tightly in rust coloured fur, feeling desperately for the heart he knew would never beat again.

“You said my music would save someone’s life,” he sobbed. “Why did Redbeard have to die?”

“We don’t get to control how these things work,” his father said, laying a hand upon his shoulder. “There are some things we’ll never understand.”

Sherlock flung his arms around Redbeard’s neck and pressed his cheek against the greying muzzle, unable to accept that his best friend would never open his eyes, would never lead him on adventures again.

“Sherlock, it’s time to let him go,” Mycroft said.

Uncle Rudy pounded a slow drumbeat that served the dual purpose of funeral dirge and grave digger while Mummy, Daddy and Mycroft each said a quiet goodbye. But Sherlock turned away, unable to watch as the red fur disappeared below the earth. Instead he raced toward the woods where they had spent hours pretending to sail the high seas. He didn’t remember grabbing his violin but when he reached Redbeard’s favourite spot by the stream he found it in his hands.

He drew the bow across the strings, trying at first to imitate the solemn requiems he’d heard at village funerals, the ones that made flowers bloom in wreaths around the headstones of the dead but it felt forced, too common for the extraordinary life he had lost.

Instead his song morphed into something of his own composition, alternating between a call for Redbeard to come back to him and a flurry of sound meant to drown out the world. He barely noticed the wind whipping frantically around him, didn’t hear Mummy and Daddy calling for him through the trees. What he did hear was a quiet voice floating back on the wind telling him everything would be alright.

\-----

John lay in the middle of the grassy field, listening to the strains of music drifting past on the gentle breeze while he waited for practice to start. The sound was slightly muffled by the headphones covering his ears but he’d learned that it was easier to explain the far away look on his face to his teammates if he pretended he was listening to the latest hits rather than admitting he was listening to music on the wind that only he could hear. He only hoped that no one asked to borrow his walkman because in truth there was nothing in there.

The previous night his father destroyed all his tapes of classical music saying that it was time for John to man the fuck up and stop listening to that pansy ass nonsense.

He didn’t mind as much as he thought he would though. The music on the wind was just as beautiful, and so much more intriguing than even the most celebrated violinists John could find in this world. And whispering his problems into the wind like a quiet prayer was easier than returning to the house where his sister snuck out the window every night to see her girlfriend, leaving John alone to deal with a father who refused to accept his children for anything but “normal” and a mother who had given up on reality.

\-----

Sherlock seemed to be the only person in his village interested in science. Why build a machine to regulate temperature when the ice and fire players could do that easily enough? Still, there were a few teachers who were willing to tell him anything he wanted to know and who opened his eyes to things he never knew existed. Sherlock never cared that these people were among those shunned by society because they hadn't learned to properly play an instrument or harness their voice to control the elements.

These people who could not turn melodies into tangible power were called “the silent ones” but Sherlock’s teachers were anything but silent. They taught him about chemical reactions and DNA, they forced him to see below the surface of human emotions, and they shared their stories about other worlds that not even the elders seemed to know.

Despite, or maybe because of this, the elders began to take a greater interest in Sherlock’s music which had developed into his own haunting style. The master violinist who could make water dance as gracefully as a swan offered to teach him to make the wind do his bidding and a famous music theory teacher from the neighbouring town offered to take him on as her protege. But Mummy always said it was up to Sherlock to decide what he wanted to do with his life so he closed the door in their faces.

Mycroft had warned him long ago that if he gave into invitations such as these, the elders would find a way to harness his powers to find and unlock the fabled door between this world and the next. He’d never thought much about his brother’s warning - Mycroft had become obsessed with government schemes ever since he left the village and his music for a life in London but Sherlock wasn’t interested in becoming anyone’s tool.

Instead he focused on chemistry and logic, only diving into his music to explore the strange connection he seemed to have formed with a mysterious friend who existed only in his mind.

At first he had wondered if he was going mad. After all, he’d first felt the connection the day they buried Redbeard and once the grief had subsided he thought perhaps the presence that had taken up residence in his mind was his old friend coming back to him.

But the feelings that drifted back to him on the last quivering notes of his most recent composition were far too human. He knew then that this was the person his mother spoke of when she told him his music would save a life and he prayed that one day fate, or circumstance, or whatever forces of the universe existed, would bring them together.

\-----

John’s experience with dating was doomed before it began.

Sarah was a lovely girl - kind, funny, attractive and wonderfully intelligent. Since they were both pre-med, she and John shared many of their classes and became fast friends. So when she expressed her interest, John hesitated only for the briefest moment before asking her out to dinner.

After a month of dating she seemed ready to take their relationship to the next level. They seemed to fit. It should have been perfect. But as they walked hand in hand through the rose gardens in Regent’s Park a soft breeze swirled around them. She sighed with contentment and nestled into his arms.

John knew he should be too old to still believe his mum’s fairy tales about otherworldly music and soulmates but that knowledge didn’t stop the hauntingly beautiful melody from reaching his ears. The strings told a tale of loneliness and fading hope and John felt like a cheating spouse caught in the act and knew that he could never love Sarah the way she deserved.

When they arrived at her front door John kissed her goodnight but declined her invitation to come up for a cup of coffee. Instead he wandered the streets, letting the music lead him where it may until he came to a halt by the river. As he gazed out at the thousands of twinkling lights across the water he imagined that one of them belonged to the person behind the music, and wondered desperately if that person even knew he was alive.

\-----

It was stupid, Sherlock thought, the idea that if he just got out of his village he would immediately find his person, the one the music spoke to. He had been naive to believe it would be as easy as going out into the world with just his violin in hand.

He had hoped, at least, to find a friend but London was just as lonely with nothing to calm his racing mind. There was too much to take in - so many mysteries to solve, but also so much tedium.

He entered university, tried to focus his mind on something concrete, but his professors were morons and the labs had all sorts of regulations that prevented him from discovering the melting point of eyeballs and other body parts.

In desperation Sherlock turned to his music but the connection had dimmed. His ‘friend’, for lack of a better word, seemed to have moved on, or at the very least, had found someone else to confide in. So when a young man called Wiggins offered him a way to escape, he reached without hesitation for the needle.

\-----

Halfway through his last year of medical school John noticed a change in the music. There was a stretch of melancholy, a chaotic crescendo, a flash of brilliance, then silence.

Months passed. Even amidst the rush of London the silence stretched on. John felt the absence of the music like a missing limb. His friends put it down to exhaustion. He had just started his residency program, which would be enough to wear anyone down. But John thought that he could manage if only he could hear the music again.

He eventually bought a stack of cds from a shop in Soho. It wasn’t the same but it had a sort of placebo effect and he decided he would take whatever he could to make the silence a little more bearable.

Still, every time a soft breeze ruffled his hair John listened hopefully for the swell of sound and emotion. When the gusts did no more than send the autumn leaves swirling, John hung his head and whispered to whoever might be listening, _please come back._

\-----

 _...come back._ The voice sunk through layers of drug induced fog to float around the blissfully empty lobby of Sherlock’s mind palace. What did the voice mean, _come back_? He hadn’t gone anywhere. It was the voice that had left him in the first place. It had left him and then he stopped playing his violin and turned to the drugs. Or was it the other way around? Had he stopped playing first, or taken the drugs first?

Sherlock had no idea. He couldn’t think. Another hit. That would make everything better. Whenever the drugs wore off the voice returned again and again and again. Sometimes the voice was hopeful ( _I know you’re still out there_ ), sometimes guilty ( _It’s my fault isn’t it? I’m sorry_ ), sometimes angry ( _Where the fuck are you?_ ), and finally terrified ( _Please. Don’t be dead)._

It was this last desperate plea drifting across Sherlock’s brain between one high and the next that forced him to finally call Mycroft.

He remembered little of the next few weeks, just vague sensations of being simultaneously too hot and too cold, flashes of anger, hallucinations and whispered words that he’s not sure were real ( _I need you)_.

When he returned, fully alert, to the world of the living Mycroft was seated at the foot of his bed.

“What were you thinking, Sherlock,” he asked.

“Clearly, I didn’t want to think. Do use your brain, Mycroft.”

Mycroft said nothing but handed Sherlock his violin. He cradled it gently, plucked at the strings, grimaced, and fiddled with the tuning pegs.

They sat there unspeaking, the silence only broken by pizzicato notes as Sherlock’s fingers worked their way up and down the violin. He knew Mycroft was deducing the likelihood of his returning to the crack house the moment he was left alone.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, raising the instrument to his chin and lifting the bow.

Mycroft rose to leave, “You might try contacting Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard.”

“Why? Is he looking for a concert violinist?” Sherlock scoffed.

“No, he’s more the classic rock sort,” Mycroft said with a smile, “But I’m sure he could put your other talents to use.”

Sherlock gave a sharp nod then turned away, drawing the bow slowly across the strings.

\-----

The music returned the day John was deployed to Afghanistan. At first he didn’t hear it over the hum of the engines, then he thought it was just the exhaustion and the desert heat playing tricks on him. But slowly the disjointed notes coalesced into chords and a soothing rhythm emerged to ease his tired mind. That night as he drifted off to sleep with the wind singing outside the barracks he felt more complete than he had in years.

The music seemed clearer in the desert than it did in the city. Maybe it was due to the lack of other noises. Or maybe it was simply John’s renewed joy at hearing it again when he thought it was gone forever.

One night after everyone else was in bed Major Sholto found him lying on the ground several yards away from camp, staring up at the sky. He expected a reprimand for breaking curfew but instead his commander settled in beside him.

“What are you doing out here, Watson?”

“Listening to the wind, Sir.”

Sholto tilted his head and listened. He couldn’t hear music of course, only the faint whistle of the breeze, but he seemed to understand.

“What do you hear?”

John hesitated but Sholto’s smile was kind. Not mocking, but genuinely curious.

A few faint bars of a sonata ruffled John’s hair.

“Home,” he said.

\-----

Sherlock found a good rhythm working with Scotland Yard. Lestrade in particular seemed to take a liking to him and kept trying to invite him over for dinner with his family. He seemed concerned with Sherlock’s lack of support system. Sherlock knew this had at least a bit to do with Donovan and Anderson’s frequent comments about him being a freak with no friends but he didn’t bother to correct them.

It didn’t matter what they thought. Sherlock did have someone to confide in, someone who seemed to know him better than he knew himself. The more he played his violin the more the connection to his mysterious friend grew and the returning breeze was fueled with feelings of adrenaline and purpose.

Lestrade called him down to see about a man found dead in a library reading room. It looked like an interesting case - locked door, no signs of a struggle, but that day Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to focus.

As he counted the possible escape routes a murderer could have taken Sherlock felt the wind whip up around him. For a second the body in front of him disappeared and he felt a rush of fear unrelated to his surroundings. The wind twisted itself around his shoulder, bringing with it a dull phantom pain. Then he understood. Something had happened. Somewhere, his _person_ was hurt, possibly dying. He left the crime scene at a sprint, ignoring Lestrade’s confused shouts.

\-----

Pain ripped through John’s shoulder. Gunfire continued to erupt around him. As if from underwater he heard Bill Murray’s voice, felt strong hands holding pressure, keeping him from bleeding out. People surrounded him, shouting orders, telling him to stay with them. But it all felt dull in comparison with the music encircling him, wrapping him in love from a stranger he would never meet.

As this thought passed through his mind the music changed into something less soothing, more demanding and John’s addled brain knew immediately that this time it was a message directly for him: _do not die_.

He nodded and felt the blinding pain tear through the haze. The music acknowledged his will to live and also his agony. Silky melodies wrapped themselves around him and John felt the pain recede into darkness.

\-----

John returned to London. Broken. Uncertain. Alone.

His therapist told him to get out and do something. Write. Reconnect with old friends. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the only person he wanted to connect with was someone he had never met.

He spent days wondering what the point of it all was. Even after his near death experience all he got was music on the wind.

John found himself standing on a bridge. He wasn't planning to jump but it would be so easy, he thought, to simply slip away. To let go. As if reading his thoughts the wind nudged him back with a reproachful chord before drifting into a new composition, one that turned his hopelessness into sound and filled his heart with the feeling of being loved. He let the music lead him down the stairs, off the bridge, into the twisting web of London’s streets.

His limp disappeared as he began to walk faster, chasing the music as if it would vanish if he fell behind. He barely noticed the street names as he rushed past, following the music as it led him through back alleys and over fences.

He came to a stop in front of a cafe and blinked in awe. He could hear the music. It wasn't just in his head or floating on the wind, audible to him alone. Passersby glanced up to where the rise and fall of the song drifted through the open window above him.

He lifted the knocker to 221B and rapped twice on the door. A motherly woman emerged, introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson and asked if he was there to see Sherlock.

John’s breath caught in his throat upon hearing the name for the first time.

“Yeah, I mean, I suppose...well, the thing is -”

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Just go on up, dear.”

John took a steadying breath and started up the stairs, savoring the rich melody ahead of him and the way the air around him shivered with anticipation.

The song ended as he pushed the sitting room door open and there in front of him stood the person he had been longing for his whole life. The music he heard for so long was no longer just in his head. It was real. It was _Sherlock_. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Brilliant,” John whispered.

The last quivering notes hung in the air between them.

Sherlock gazed at him in amazement. He hadn’t dared to dream it would work but the music on the wind had reached John, had brought him home. Mummy had been right all those years ago. His person, the one his music had saved, the one who had saved him, was really there. Finally John was standing in front of him and Sherlock had no idea what to do.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” he said, “sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.”

John closed the gap between them.

“It’s fine,” he said, extending his hand, half as an introduction, half to make sure that Sherlock was real, “It’s all fine.”

Even as Sherlock let the bow drop to take his hand John heard the music swell around them.

A prelude to something amazing.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at [adventureofthedancinggirl](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/). Come say hello!


End file.
